((Note: this thread is not intended for ongoing rp, but as somewhere for people to post IC stories, with the hope of generating some lasting IC legends for HoP. As such, I'd like it to be considered time-ish, and people should feel free to nip in for a post without worrying that they're in mid-conversations somewhere else. Just don't get into conversations in here, if you want to have a chat, start another thread.

Once I finally get Reith's Weapon-crafting up and running, there will be a discount available in return for stories here. I'm willing for people to post and claim the discount later, just so long as you only claim the discount once.

Unless you are seeking the aforementioned discount, feel free to post as NPC villagers/travellers, and regardless of who you want to post as, feel free to tell stories about others. I'd be quite interested in reading about the Traveller's Sacrifice or Kerrigan's Fall, for example, or just make something up. There have been plenty of legend-worthy events in the system, but there's 150+ years of pre-history as well.

In the darkened hall, a tale finishes, the speaker sits down, and is passed a horn of ale. Another rises, a warrior of Arfwaln. He waits for the gathered to notice him before he begins.

"I have a tale. I am no skald, no storyteller, but this is a story that needs to be told. Let it be remembered, passed on and retold. Let these deeds never be forgotten.

This is a tale of a man. No perfect paragon of virtue and vallor, this was a man, imperfect as any of us, strong as any of us can be. A Hero to some. A villain to many. A man.

I do not know the story of his birth, his life, the birth of his daughter, grandchildren. I know only the story of his death, the crimes he committed that lead him to it, and the penance he paid at the end. But before that, I must go further back.

Velnashar. The Chaos. The violent Son. The Mother's Uncle. With the wars that have raged, the destruction wrought, He gained strength, and gained ideas above His position, abhorrent ideas of kin-war, of enslavement, of usurping His own mother. And so He moved against Her with power inconceivable to mortal minds, and with his bloated strength, He brought Her low, bound Her and controlled Her. In the time since, His strength has grown but further as destruction and chaos dominated the world under His power.

Months ago, in the cold winter just past, Velnashar reached down to the world and granted to one of his chosen a boon, a sword forged by the Violent Son himself, carrying His will and His destructive power. Faced with such a threat, Threan and his companions stood firm, and a titanic battle raged. In the middle of this battle, Threan wrested the sword from its wielder, and drew upon his magic to take him, and it far from the reach of Velnashar's Champion. He travelled to the township of Naturlin to consult with his friend and ally, the Traveller of whom many tales are told. In his haste to find an answer to the problem before him, he did not realise that he was bringing an artefact of the most destructive power with him. He did not consider the consequences of such actions."

The speaker pauses to take a long draught from a drinking horn which was passed to him.

"We all felt the tremmors of that destruction. We all saw the wrath of the Violent Son, and even from such a distance all knew that something truely terrible had happened that day. The Traveller perished in the fires along with many thousands of others. The lands themselves for many miles around were blasted bare of life, and the lingering effects of Velnashar's gaze will sicken any who enter the area even today. Somehow, Threan survived. By dint of luck, of magic, a cruel joke played on him by Velnashar or perhaps reward for what he had done, Threan lived.

His next crime was one of trust. Threan had again travelled forth with companions varied. The group were charged with the destruction of an artefact called the Heart of Winter. This powerful item, bound to the Winter Elf race, was resistant to near-any attempts to destroy it and it was thought that in a land dedicated to and dominated by Velnashar the Destroyer, means may be found to do so. After overcoming challenges of wits and guile, of strength and will, the group discovered a shrine of sorts, originally to the Great-Grandmother, but defiled and subverted to the Violent Son's worship. In this place, Threan deemed it suitable to attempt to draw upon the power of this terrible God to destroy the artefact. He had not expected the God to arrive in person. Threan agreed to deliver the artefact to Velnashar under terrible oath that it's power would never again be felt on this world. Again, as he sought a solution in haste, he did not realise that the being he was attempting to bind was none other than the Lord of Chaos, and no oath would bind him. Thus he delivered unto the Violent Son control of an entire race, for that was the power of the Heart.

Threan's ill-judgement was soon realised as the company found themselves beset on all sides by hordes of Winter Elves. As his companions fought for their survival, forcing back waves and waves of unyielding foes, Threan sought to hold the Lord of Chaos to his word. Calling upon every god save those few allied with the Great-Grandmother's captor, he sought to call Velnshar forth and bind him to that place to answer for his betrayal. Velnashar's power was mighty, though, and Threan and the healer Bartholomew were instead drawn from this world to face Velnashar on His own terms. As his allies still on Velmaneth fought for their lives, splintering shield and axe in desperate combat, Threan entered the most epic battle a warrior could fight. Mortal man fighting a God. Empowered by the wills of every God who would stand against Velnashar's treachery, Threan fought with might, with courage and with skill. For every blow he received he dealt three more, but even empowered as he was, he fought the most powerful of Gods, and his strength was failing. As Velnashar closed to end the battle, Threan felt hands on his shoulders. Bartholomew, unable to stand against a God in battle, had yet a part to play, and he gave of himself for his friend, taking Threan's injuries upon himself. Refreshed, and empowered with the certainty that he fought for more than his own life, Threan mat Velnashar's charge, and battle was rejoined. Over and around Bartholomew's unconscious form the two combatants fought anew, and slowly, unbelievably, Threan began to gain the upper hand. Finally, he cast Velnashar down and reclaimed the Heart. Before they were returned to the mortal world, however, Velnashar, battered and injured laid one last blow against Threan. A cowards blow, a poisoned curse. Unable to defeat Threan in battle, Velnashar instead bound Threan's life to His light, cursing the Earth Elf to die as the sun set. As the Heart was returned from Velnashar's grasp, the elves threatening to overrun his companions ceased their assault, and without further word, departed. The company let them leave, knowing that their blades had not been guided by their own will.

Knowing his death was at hand, Threan proposed one last act he would undertake, and offered any who would accompany him to engage in this nigh-suicidal act. With Velnashar weakened, on this land which had been dedicated to Eremine, Threan would give his own life in ritual in an attempt to release the Great-Grandmother. Seven brave souls entered that ritual. Threan stood at the centre, surrounded by Bartholomew, recovered from his ordeal in Velnashar's lands knelt to Threan's right. Behind him, another healer, the Dwarf Ralph knelt, ready to give everything he was to break the power of the Destroyer. To Threan's left, two brave Larkant Warriors offered their bodies and blood in this endeavour. Reith son of Tyrald of Arfwaln and Dellam Kellbeck, son of Verack of Maron were ready and unflinching in their will to free the Enslaved Mother. Finally, infront of Threan, two black-skinned Goblins knelt, ready as any in the circle to put the needs of their world above their own.

The ritual began with tremendous magic and power being brought to bare on the spot. Before the participants, a set of golden scales appeared, entwined by dark chains. As Threan paced the circle invoking his God, Gerethanax, each of the others gave signs of their devotion. Barthomoew placed his hand on the centre balance of the scales, and holding the symbol of his God, called upon His power to free Eremine from her bondage. Ralph placed one hand on each plate of the scales and called upon Eremine herself to take heart and take strength from the devotion of those present. Reith and Dellam stepped forth and drew blood from their arms, letting it fall on the scales, calling upon the Mother of blood to aid Her Grandmother. Finally the goblins stepped forth and with spell and steel, laid blows upon the dark chains, decrying Velnashar's power, denying His strength. As each participant pledged themselves to the effort, the chains snaked out and looped around their necks, binding them to Eremine's fate. Threan continued to pace the circle as the chains began to tighten around his neck. His chants became more and more strained until he could take no more and fell to the ground. Bartholomew stood, an took his place as the rest continued their parts in the ritual. Slowly, it became clear the the chains were weakening, their attacks on the companions acts of desperation, not strength. The goblins redoubled their efforts, striking at what weak points the could perceive in the chains, shattering first the one binding Threan's neck. The chain binding Bartholomew shattered even as he fell to the floor, followed by one of the goblins. Dellam took the goblin's place, striking the chains as one after the other, they fell away, broken, defeated. Finally, exhausted, near-dead, the companions were rewarded with the sight of Eremine Herself rising, free, from the circle to take her place again.

Though they survived the ritual, those who had been within it, and those who had stood ready to defend it knew there was one final task which had to be done. One final bond to break. United through blood and suffering, they did not think to question Threan's valour, and so as his time came, and he sank into the earth never to arise, each paid his or her regards to the fallen Elf before turning to travel their own path onward. The last to leave his graveside was his daughter Zemillia, who knelt for hours in mourning before her companions could persuade her to move on."

The speaker pauses a while, and several present begin to talk, thinking he is done, but he does speak again, his voice loud.

"I cannot tell you what to think of this man. Whether his crimes outweigh his achievements. I can tell you to remember this tale, though. To remember that any of us is capable of tremendous deeds, of great evil and great good. We will never be helpless until the day we allow ourselves to be brought low. Remember this tale, and let that day never come!"

As the speaker sat back down, the conversation rose again, and someone calls out. "But what happened to the Heart?"

The speaker glances up from his food long enough to call back. "Another tale, another day." He then returns to his food and refuses to comment further.

Another evening, and another warriors finishes his tale. An older, wiry man stands. "Bah, young'uns these days! In my day it wasn't a battle unless you had enough dead on your side to make a decent pire out of. Else it was just a hike across the moors with a couple o' sword fights thrown in for variety." He shakes his head and takes a swig of his drink. "But I promised you a real tale."

The man stands up and walks round to the foot of the table, standing a little way back so some of the warriors have to turn away from the table to face him. "Hear now the tale of some of those who died at those walls. It starts, as many do with the great Chieftan Danoas. Many tribes across these lands claim Danoas as their champion, but we know the truth. Danoas was born here, in this village, and though the house might not have survived as well as his legends, we will remember this."

"My tale begins late in his reign. He had unified many tribes under his banner, and attracted the attention of many, far and wide. This was back before Erathil's betrayal, and we were trading with the Heartlands and the construction that was Dvarni, the great city. It was not, and will never be our way to live in such places, but Danoas wanted to aid in the effort to show our thanks and respect to the Great-Grandmother, Eremine."

"The seasons turned as seasons do, and a delegation of high elves approached our village, requesting an audience with the great Chieftan, seeking to discuss matters of trade, and request some of the greatest warriors of Velmaneth to aid them in guarding the trade routes leading to Pathway. As the elves were invited within to partake of the hospitality our people are known for, they brought with them a barrel of finest elven wine, a small gift to Danoas and his household. Ah the feasts of the day. I was but a lad then, younger even than you are now, but I can still remember them. Huge tables creaking under the weight of the meats and game, barrels of mead and ale." He holds out his hand, and one of the others at the table, apparently used to his unspoken requests, tosses a drinking horn to him. He catches is with practised ease and takes a long draught before continuing. "As the night wore on, the leader of the elves, with boldness brought on by many hors of mead, proposed a toast to Danoas' health, and suggested that the barrel of wine they had brought be breached for it. The chieftan agreed, and as soon as all vessels had been filled, the elf stood before them saying 'To your health, your wealth and that of all your people.' he raised his horn high and took a deep draught." The storyteller pauses, and his eyes lower to the floor. As he continues, his voice is filled with sadness and loss.

"By the time the guards outside arrived in the room, all but one were dead. The elves had brought poison with them, hidden in the wine, and even our great hero's indomitable constitution could not withstand its ravages. As the guards entered, Danoas pulled himself to his feet. As they took in the horror of that feast hall turned charnel-house, he drew upon all that remained of his strength, and drawing his blade, he spoke to his warriors. 'Traitors and murderers, all of them. I will not die like this. Give me a warrior's death.'"

"The following day, the best part of our warriors marched to war. They never did return. To the north of Pathway, if you can find it, there is a hill, upon which is a cairn of stones. One stone for every warrior slain. Elven treachery cost us our greatest hero, our greatest warriors, and with time, even the unity that Danoas had built and bled for. But we still remember, honour our dead. Better to die a warrior's death, die with honour and courage than live a craven traitor and coward." The storyteller drains the rest of his horn in one go, and then with a flourish, turns, and walks back to his seat.

In the drinking hall of the Larkant village of Arfwaln, a young warrior stands. He climbs up onto the table and stamps a foot, then waits. Slowly silence spreads across the room as more and more people turn to listen to the new story their smith has for them.

Once the room is quiet, the warrior begins to speak. "It is said that there are heroes in this world so powerful, so inspiring and so enduring in legend that they will never die. Their blood may be shed, the Mother's gift drawn from them, but their deeds and memory live on with their Kin and all those they met so they are never forgotten.

"I am not going to tell the tale of just one of those heroes tonight. I am going to tell the tale of sixteen heroes who were so powerful, so inspiring that their enemies attempted to destroy not just their bodies, but their legends, attempted to destroy the world's memory of them.

"One by one, the heroes awoke from troubled dreams in a land unfamiliar and ghostly-cold. Surrounded by strangers, their only guide a man who freely admitted he wished to see them destroyed, they found themselves at the start of a series of trials. The enemies of these heroes wished to destroy them, to remove them from memory, but to do so, they had to strike down their intended victims within these trials their guide explained. Even with all their might, forcing the world to forget one of its children is not a simple task.

"Understanding the risk they faced, and the task before them, the heroes set out to face their fate. Through a magical portal, they faced the first trial, brutal, wearing combat. An army of undead assaulted the heroes and with their very legends at stake, they struck back with unfettered might. To begin, they fought badly, unaccustomed to each others' presence or tactics, but soon they found their stride, and the undead fell, shattered by blade and spell.

"At the forefront of the battle stood one warrior, a champion from far-flung Serke Kemi, Raz moved across the field of battle as a scythe through wheat. Again and again, the foes blades, clubs and claws struck out against him, but his skill stood unmatched and he deflected with his limbs alone blows which would have hewn the mightiest shield in two. Through the battle he flowed, his blade severing limbs, arms and heads as he taught the horde to fear the might of a people born to war.

"As the rest of the heroes fought on, frequently one would find themselves outflanked or backed into a corner, only for their enemy to fall, the head nearly severed by deep wounds and the darkened figure of a goblin fading back into the shadows. Squits fought as his people are want to, moving from shadow to shadow, his foes never seeing his approach nor the dead able to watch his leaving. Retaliation proved useless as striking at the shadows he moved through, and not once did the undead even find their target let alone wound him. His movements were unpredictable and impossible to follow, but his blades were ever where they were needed as he taught the horde that even they had cause to fear that which lurks in the darkness.

"By the time the enemy was destroyed, these two warriors had slain a full five score foes, while the rest of the group had accounted for fifty more. Moving on, their spirits were high, though the wiser amongst them began to wonder what form the latter trials might take."

The warrior pauses to accept a horn of mead, drinking deeply before he continued with his tale. "And so the heroes' guide, this nameless servant of darkness led them further toward what he assured them would be their doom. Soon a familiar scent drifted to those able to discern it, followed by a disturbingly familiar form. Midari. The heroes formed up, ready for the onslaught, but more and more werewolves bore down on the heroes, crashing into them with unstoppable speed and scattering any battle-line into chaos.

"Amidst that chaos was one for whom the battle held more terror than any other. The feline Kendra had been slain by Midari before her soul had been snatched from the hopewastes like many of the others to face these trials. Faced with the very monsters that had taken her life, fear gripped the young warrior's heart, and who would have blamed her for allowing her comrades to combat this foe? But she did not allow the fear to hold her, and her bone-forged blades tasted werewolf blood that day. Where many a young warrior would have struggled to hold his bowels, let alone his blade, the heroes fought on, and one by one the mighty beasts fell. And always at the heart of the combat, the feline fought, denying her fear, denying her doom, she proved herself in bloody battle.

"After this battle one of the heroes spotted some scraps of paper amongst the corpses. Despite the guide's cajoling, the high elf Weyoun and Drake, the hero of pathway, both also snatched from the hopewastes set about studying these fragments. They quickly ascertained that they were part of a larger text, and that said text was written in some code, but to decipher the message, they would need more fragments.

"More battles followed, with wolves and elemental creatures, and at each step, more fragments were uncovered and Weyoun and Drake gathered and poured over them. At last, with all the fragments assembled, two of the most cunning of heroes, veterans of both sides of our oldest war brought their skills together. The message they uncovered was simple but vital. It revealed the order in which four champions must be defeated in order to prevent their return. With their guide still telling them that the message was a trick, the heroes put it to the test, and joined in battle with a knight, a mage, a scout and a healer. The battle was vicious and close fought, the heroes restrained, unable to slay their foes freely, and in the chaos of battle, Squits struck down the wrong foe. Even as the heroes withdrew and regrouped, the foes renewed themselves, and the guide was proved false. The second battle was taxing, weary as they were from the first, but the heroes knew their targets now, and with the guidance of Weyoun and Drake to lead them, they defeated this threat, and the next portal opened.

"Wary now of any advice the guide might give them, the heroes moved on, and found themselves brought to pass judgement for a crime of murder. They would have to pass and render judgement on the two people accused of mutilating and killing a young woman, wife of a wealthy farmer. On the one hand stood another young woman, the lover of the dead wife. She may have murdered her lover for refusing her advances. Or the woman's husband, discovering that the pair planned to flee with a share of his wealth may have killed his unfaithful partner.

"The heroes posed questions and probed the stories of both those accused of the crime, but their stories both seemed to be plausible, and neither could offer any evidence to hold their story above that of the other. Amythea, a human spell caster led the questioning, probing one of the accused then the other. Her keen mind caught the flaws in each side's story, and she refused to let them lie, finding question after question to try and uncover the truth of the story. When she was finally done, the heroes withdrew to consider what they had learned, but one of their number yet had another part to play.

"Galiv, a goblin bard of great guile had used the time during Amythea's questioning to carefully make his way past the court guards and up to the two accused of the crime. Able to speak with them without interruption or distraction, he used all his charm to gain the trust of the two, and speak with them as a friend to try and uncover their story. When he was finally discovered and returned to his fellows, Galiv had much to add to the debate raging about the outcome of the trial.

"The discussion ranged one way and then the other. Finally, the assembled heroes decided that they would not condemn and take the Mother's gift from any they were not certain of the guilt of. As one was declared free, then the other their guide could only look on in anger as the way opened to the heroes and they moved on.

"Along the way, the party next came to a stone lying in the road. The scouts and warriors walked past, but those whose senses were attuned to magic paused by the stone, for it carried the same magical energies as the portals the group had been passing through. It fell again to Weyoun and Drake to identify the magic within the stone, calling upon their own mastery of magic, and their gods, Onlurin and Yashminar to reveal its purpose. What they revealed was troubling indeed. The stone was required to open the way ahead, but whoever carried it would be drained of their strength, slowly killed by the stone as they pressed on. To make matters worse, the stone, once disturbed would call to the shades that inhabited the area, so the heroes would need to defend as well as heal the one who carried it.

"The first to step up to the task was the high elf Elwing, a brave archer who had long forsworn her firstborn, and instead turned to the Lord of Freedom, His rebellious brother Danahil. With the stone in hand, she began to make her way towards the exit from the area. All around the heroes, shadows erupted into a violent semblance of life, and soon they were beset from all sides. Striking back at the creatures with all their might, the heroes strove to clear a path ahead for Elwing to follow. The great mage Kar channelled his Essence into Elwing, restoring her strength as best he could as the stone sapped it, easily closing wounds from those very few of the shadows that managed to push past the hero’s defences.

"But still the path stretched on, and the shadows attacked tirelessly. Raz stood to the fore, keeping a path ahead clear with his deadly blade, while Squits moved through the shadows, dispatching foes even as they emerged. Kendra and Reith fought to the sides and rear, holding back the tide of darkness. Yet for all their strength, the heroes could not clear a path quickly enough, and the stone drew more and more on Elwing's strength until she could endure it no more even with Kar's prodigious support, and the rock fell from her gasp.

"Without pause another stepped up. Alvar, another elf, a mage, picked up the stone as Elwing was supported and pulled back. Again the group pressed on, and still they were beset from all sides with no end in sight. Elwing joined the defenders, committing what strength she had left to hold back the foes alongside her allies. Soon Alvar's strength too began to flag, and it took all his strength and Kar's support for him to simply keep moving. Around the pair, the shades attacked again and again, and for every creature struck down, another leapt from the shadows eager for blood. Finally, the path's end came into view, a shimmering portal, but Alvar's strength was almost gone. He staggered, and almost fell beneath the unnatural weight placed upon him. His legs were barely able to carry him, and finally, despite his greatest efforts, his strength failed. But even as he fell, Alvar threw his burden ahead. As shades closed upon him, the stone landed, rolled, and slipped into the portal. Their beacon gone, the shades faded even as they struck, one blade gently touching Alvar's throat before it completely lost substance.

"Another daunting task complete, but the heroes dared not stop and rest. They gathered up and healed Alvar and pressed on into the gathering gloom. As they crested a hill, a strange sensation overcame the group. Slowly they came to realise that their Essence, the strange force that empowers heroes had been stripped from them by a ritual lying below. As they approached to investigate, twisted creatures lurched out of the darkness - yet more undead.

"With their allies magic stripped away, the warriors of the group fought as best they could against the tide of regenerating monstrosities. Behind them, the mages and casters attempted to break the ritual and return their essence, but without the use of their power they could not hope to overpower the magic that thwarted them.

"With their foes closing in, and several of the warriors unconscious on the floor, one of the heroes cut off from his allies and attempting to defend three downed comrades, cried out for help. Seeing no-one coming, he called out again, decrying the blindness of those who would abandon him to be overwhelmed. Raz of Serke Kemi answered the call, and soon the foes had been cut down. Yet Raz did not return to protecting the spell weavers, but instead turned his blade to the warrior who had insulted him, and in the midst of battle, with soul and legend at stake, he threatened to kill his ally if he did not receive an apology.

"The warrior did apologise for his unthought insults, but in that moment Raz showed he carried the failing of many so-called warriors of Honour. To answer words with a sword is to reveal that you cannot find words, and to turn on your allies in war is unforgivable. True honour is born of a warrior's actions, and a warrior who would willingly endanger his allies in battle is neither honourable, nor truly a warrior.

"Aside from this unpleasant scene, the spell-weaver Osoroshii and the strange warrior Shogo finally cracked the riddle. Each in their own way, they realised that their Essence had not been stripped, but was merely being blocked. As they each had their own ways of doing, they reached around the magic that would seal away their Essence, and surpassed it. Channelling their power unto Kar allowed Kar to cast a spell such that the whole group could enter the circle, and this done, disrupt it and regain their strength. Even as they did so, four glooms entered the battlefield, and the heroes withdrew, circling the glooms and retreating together from that they need not fight to the next challenge.

"With the glooms far behind, the heroes found themselves in a village, surprisingly calm and peaceful. They spoke with the villagers and took a moment to recover their strength and refresh their magics. The only sign of anything out of place was a large hourglass in the centre of the square within some strange magical-looking lines. When they asked the villagers its purpose, they responded as if the hourglass was not visible to them.

"It was Aviandah, the life elf healer who recognised the scene as a time-magic ritual she had witnessed before. It would take them forward or backward ten years, and so the group gathered around the circle, much to the villagers' confusion, to see what the future would reveal.

"As soon as they completed the ritual, the heroes were beset by undead, though nowhere near as powerful as the monsters they had fought earlier in the day. The village was a ruin, with the stench of undeath and decay suffusing the area. On closer inspection, the undead the heroes had slain were the same villagers they had been talking to in the present, so without delay, they returned to the present to try and uncover the source of the disaster.

"In the present time, Aviandah quickly discovered the villagers all had some kind of lingering poison in them which was turning them into undead. It was a very slow-acting concoction, but had progressed past being treatable, and so the heroes travelled into the past.

"There, they found the villagers as children, asleep, yet already infected with this poison. Finding that they could not track the culprit, the heroes instead turned to healing the villagers. Kar first attempted the task, calling forth his magic in one manner then another, trying to drive back the infection. But while he might be able to disrupt it, Kar could not with all his magic cure the disease that permeated the villagers.

"The heroes puzzled for a while before Aviandah determined her Serkanian-taught healing arts, working with the patient's bdy rather than magic, might be able to cure the poison. Yet she did not wish to disrupt time by revealing herself to the villagers, but required them conscious to perform the act. She puzzled with this, then Shogo took her by the hand and led her into the room where one of the villagers was sleeping. Without revealing his plan to her, he woke the child, and introduced Aviandah, angel of dreams. His powers of persuasion, augmented by his Essence proved enough to convince the child she was still sleeping, and Aviandah, once she had recovered her wits began tending to the child. Once the attempt proved successful, she moved to the other children, and again Shogo convinced them of their dreaming state. So, where the mightiest magic could not succeed, Serkanian arts, devoid of any magic, proved the answer.

"The heroes stepped through into the next portal as the sun finally set, and they could but wonder what the night would bring."

A clamour breaks out in the room as the warrior dropped back to the floor as his audience demand a conclusion to his story, and the warrior smiles. "Perhaps after I've eaten. This tale is not one to rush."

Right, so there's this really nice water elf called Riva, and he told me this story. It's not as long or as impressive as some of the other ones I've heard arounds and abouts, and i might not have remembered it properly, but it's still one of my favourites. Be-hasically, there was this seal called Mack, and he lived in a biscuit tin and he granted wishes. And one time, someone wished that the biscuit tin Mack lived in was filled with biscuits and that it would never ever empty. So Mack granted the wish, but because the biscuit tin was filled with biscuit rather than wish-granting seal, there was no space for Mack any more, so he disappeared!

But the biscuit tin was completely full of chocolate cream biscuits. And the person who made the wish ate and ate and ate biscuits till he was REALLY fat, so fat he was like a big bouncyball. And he ate ALL the chocolate cream biscuits, and instead the tin was filled with squashed fly biscuits which NOBODY likes, and so he donated the tin to the Arcane University for research, But no one in the University wanted a tin of squashed fly biscuits, so someone just gave it to one of the magicky things that live in it, and it took it away. So hidden somewhere in the university, there's a tin of eternal biscuits, and I reckon if someone found it, and held it upside down, all the squashed fly biscuits would fall out and fall out and out and out, until new biscuits came. And they could be chocolate chip cookies or something, and that would be amazing.

Keladry 'Kel' Wright - Telerfret high mage, Principal and Professor of Water at the Arcane University, High Priest of YashmanarGizmo - Light Elf Sorc/crafter, Captain of the Nomads, friend to rocksCinder - Efreet scout, High Priest of Eternity

Sitting by the fire, chewing on a large chunk of wood, is a small girl made of flame. Some of the newcomers to the hall eye her warily, but none of the locals seem bothered by her, and apart from occasionally stealing food from one of the roasting spits, she mostly seems enthralled by the stories. One in particular catches her attention. Grinning gleefully at the idea of a never-empty biscuit tin, she suddenly jumps up and disappears into the roaring fire behind her.